past and present
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It had been five years since I’d seen Henry last. I’d walked across the stage at graduation to the deafening sound of my father’s air horn and my mother’s shrill voice screaming “That’s my daughter,” as I clutched my high school diploma to my chest and smiled. The sound of my mother’s pride tore
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The click reverberated in my memory as I twisted the key in the lock. My morning walk had left me chilled and oddly unsettled, the empty streets and drawn curtains of my neighbors’ houses feeling more oppressive than peaceful today. I felt my dad’s hand on my shoulder as I leaned into the door;
Ink & Interruptions 